First, I acknowledge the eternal being,
Brahman, essence of everything that is,
source of all, the inconceivable;
bliss-bestowing Vishnu, Hari Krishna.
And I bless the name of Sarasvati,
goddess of deep learning and of art,
she who can touch a poet’s tongue with silver.
To her I dedicate my epic poem.
This is the tale of a tragic dynasty;
a narrative of hatred, honor, courage,
of virtue, love, ideals and wickedness,
and of a war so terrible, it marked
the threshold between one age and the next.
We approach the story through Ugrashravas,
singer of ancient songs, a traveling poet
who wandered the world free of encumbrances,
worshiping at sacred bathing places;
welcome at every court and hermitage
where people loved spellbinding tales.
He told it
to a community of brahmin seers
at their ashram in the Naimisha Forest.
Engaged in a twelve-year-long sacrifice,
they were, no doubt, avid for entertainment
of an improving kind. They gathered round him
clamorous with questions. “Distinguished bard,”
they said, “tell us where you have traveled from.
What have you seen? What news have you brought us?”
“Not long ago, I spent time at the court
of the great King Janamejaya
of the house of Bharata. You may know
that the king is the direct descendant
of the world-renowned Pandavas—great-grandson
of Arjuna, the legendary archer.
“I happened to be present at the time
when the king was holding a snake sacrifice
to avenge King Parikshit, his father,
who was poisoned by the snake, Takshaka,
and died a premature and painful death.
While there, I listened, rapt, day after day
to an unforgettable narration
of the monumental Mahabharata—
the history of the royal lineage,
storehouse of wisdom, and much more besides.
“Then I made a solemn pilgrimage
to sacred Kurukshetra, site of war.
And now, full of respect, wishing to see you,
I have come to visit. So, holy sages,
say what stories you would like to hear.”
“Tell us in detail about the sacrifice.”
“First, a huge fire was built. The flames leapt high,
mantras were recited by the brahmins
as ritual oblations, no cost spared,
were poured into the blaze by black-robed priests.
Then snakes appeared, drawn irresistibly
toward their death. Serpents by the million,
of every color, some as thin as threads,
others thick as trunks of elephants;
snakes from the dark recesses of the earth,
snakes from the forest, snakes from ponds and rivers
fell hissing, terrified, into the furnace.
Wildly they writhed, fruitlessly they screeched
as the flames devoured them. The race of snakes
would have been entirely extinguished
but for the fulfillment of a prophecy:
a brahmin will disrupt the sacrifice.
“Astika, devout son of a snake woman,
implored by his mother to save her kin,
came to the court of Janamejaya.
He was a brahmin child of great sweetness
and he praised the king so eloquently
that Janamejaya offered him a boon.
‘Then stop the sacrifice,’ said Astika.
The king tried to persuade the boy to choose
another favor, since the snake Takshaka,
Parikshit’s killer, had not yet been thrown
into the boiling flames. But Astika
declined. So it was that Takshaka
survived, to the great joy of his relatives.
“Guests had come from the remotest corners
of the land, to witness the event.
Among them was the ancient seer Vyasa—
noblest of men, greatest of all scholars,
widely revered poet and ascetic—
together with his most advanced disciples.
King Janamejaya received Vyasa
with lavish honors, and the seer was pleased.
‘Sir,’ said the king, ‘you witnessed at first hand
all that happened to my ancestors,
all their actions, all their vicissitudes.
Please tell me everything, as it occurred.’
“Vyasa smiled. ‘That is a large request.
I have composed the story of your lineage
in a poem so long, so all-embracing,
that it will take a whole lunar cycle,
and more, to recite in its entirety.
The poem was born, grew, and took its shape
in the presence of my five disciples
—my son Shuka, Vaishampayana,
Paila, Jaimini and Sumantu—
and, while they attended to my needs,
they took it in, and learned my words by heart.’
“Vyasa turned to his most able student,
seated beside him. ‘Vaishampayana,
please tell the king the story of his forebears,
the epic poem of the Bharatas,
as you have heard it from me, word for word.’
“‘Gladly!’ said the disciple. ‘I am honored
to be the channel of Vyasa’s thought,
for anyone who speaks these marvelous lines,
and anyone who hears them, is purified,
cleansed even of their worst iniquity.
What the poem contains concerning dharma,
pursuit of wealth, pleasure, and final freedom,
may be found elsewhere. But you can be sure
that what it does not contain is found nowhere.
“‘Although the poem tells of huge events,
battles, armies of a million men,
and though it speaks of gods and demons acting
directly in the human world, the gist—
the conflicts and dilemmas, the regrets,
the way that good and bad, wisdom, delusion,
strive for dominance in each of us—
is still played out in every human heart
and always will be. As you will soon see,
the poem contains much more than epic action.’
“First, Vaishampayana outlined the story
of how the Bharata lineage began.
‘Many generations back, Duhshanta,
a powerful king, was hunting in the forest
when he came upon the lovely hermitage
of the seer Kanva. The seer was not at home
but his adopted daughter, Shakuntala,
made the king welcome. Duhshanta was smitten
with desire for the beautiful young woman
and urged her to marry him. She consented
on one condition: that her future son
would become the heir to Duhshanta’s kingdom.
They lay together. Then the king departed,
promising to send for her. Months passed
and Shakuntala gave birth to a boy.
No word came from Duhshanta. After six years,
Kanva sent Shakuntala and her son
to Hastinapura, where the king held court.
But Duhshanta claimed to have no memory
of Shakuntala, or of his promise,
and with harsh insults told her to be gone.
Shakuntala reproached him, reminding him
of their meeting. But the king was adamant.
As Shakuntala left, a heavenly voice
told Duhshanta to fulfill his promise.
The king then joyfully called Shakuntala
and told her he had only rejected her
to deflect the suspicions of his people.
The boy was acknowledged as his son and heir
and named Bharata. When he grew to manhood
he became a great and benevolent king
and your lineage descends from him.’
“Vaishampayana then traced the subsequent
history of the distinguished clan, naming
the heroes and their qualities, describing
how bitter enmity arose among them
resulting in a cataclysmic war.
For on the part-forested and fertile plain
nourished by the Ganga and the Yamuna
scalding events occurred which, ever since,
have been a lesson and a light to those
able to see something of themselves
within the lives the story animates.
“‘I wish to hear the tale in much more detail,’
said Janamejaya. ‘But first, tell me
how those heroic men, those ancestors
who spilled so much blood on the battlefield,
came to be born. What divine destiny
were they fulfilling when they walked the earth?’
“‘Long, long ago,’ said Vaishampayana,
‘no kshatriyas roamed the land causing havoc;
the brahmin warrior Rama Jamadagnya
had wiped them out many times over.
Kshatriya women, lacking warrior husbands,
lay with brahmins, and new kshatriya children
were born, to repopulate their kind.
Then the world passed through a golden time.
Brahmins headed the whole social order.
There was respect for dharma; people behaved
harmoniously, without lust or anger.
They lived long lives in peace and kindness, free
of all disease. Plants and animals
also flourished, each in the proper season.
“‘But this would change. Unseen, in the cosmos,
gods and demons fought for supremacy.
Demons, defeated, forced out by the gods,
began to take birth in the human world
as kshatriyas. They thought they should be gods.
They despised lawful ways and moderation;
the beautiful resources of the world
were theirs to plunder, squander, smash, defile.
Ravaging the earth, they multiplied,
sowing hate, mistrust and fear, oppressing
and slaughtering gentler creatures, so that life
became a misery.
“‘Earth went to Brahma,
lord of creation, and bowed down before him.
O Lord Brahma, I am overwhelmed
by so much wickedness. I shall be destroyed!
She described to him what was taking place.
Of course, omniscient Brahma knew already
every corner of the created world.
He assured her he would bring together
the mighty powers of heaven to support her.
“‘Then Brahma summoned all the gods, and spoke:
Earth is in danger. You must each be born
as humans, using a portion of yourselves
to endow a human being with god-like power.
Employ your attributes as you see fit.
Pitch your strength against the demonic forces
which threaten to engulf the entire earth.
The gods were eager to begin their mission
and they exhorted the supreme being,
Vishnu himself, to take on human form.
“‘So it was that your splendid great-grandfather
and his brothers, the five sons of Pandu,
were partial incarnations of deities.
And Krishna Vasudeva, their supporter
in all things, was the knowing avatar
of the great lord Vishnu, the all-powerful.
Their cousins, sons of Pandu’s sightless brother,
the hundred Kauravas, were of demon stock.’
“Vaishampayana gave the king details
of the cosmic origins of many more
heroes who figure in this history—
a roll call of courageous warriors
whose fame lives on in legend, drama, song.
‘Their story, made immortal by Vyasa,
is the tale of the eternal struggle fought
between opposing forces, good and evil,
the powers of darkness and the power of light.’
“‘Now tell me everything,’ said Janamejaya,
‘exactly as you heard it from Vyasa.’
So, day after day, at the king’s behest,
and as Vyasa listened, silently,
Vaishampayana, chosen disciple,
recited Vyasa’s poem. No one who heard it
could forget the sense of being carried
off to another time and place. And I,
Ugrashravas, was one of those fortunates.”
Soon you will hear the tale Ugrashravas
told the forest brahmins. But first, learn
how the ancient seer Krishna Dvaipayana,
known as Vyasa, master of cosmic knowledge,
composed this poem, the longest in the world,
a poem-compendium. It first took shape
silently, in his mind, a panorama
spreading out before him. He himself
was both author and actor in his story—
as we are in our own lives and, besides,
all is permitted to the storyteller.
Wise Vyasa had already arranged
the Vedas, but conceived this masterpiece
not just for the highborn, but for all.
Those of humble birth, laborers, women
should hear his poem and be enriched by it.
As he had spoken it to his disciples,
and as he heard it told by Vaishampayana
to a hushed gathering, he clearly saw
how it could enlighten all who heard it.
The poem was a map of the labyrinth,
the moral maze, that is our life on earth.
It told of choices and of mortal error,
of how even the saintly go astray
while, even in the worst, glimmers of gold
reveal themselves to a compassionate eye.
All should have access to the edifice
that was his narrative. But he realized
that for his poem to last for ages hence,
it must be written down.
Picture him
standing, bearded, rake thin, his eyes closed,
his head and body smeared with ash and ochre,
rags for covering, a visionary,
the entire epic cradled in his head.
He approached Brahma, lord of creation,
his inspiration all along, who happened
to be paying him a visit. Vyasa spoke:
“Lord, I have composed a mighty poem.
My work will open eyes dulled by ignorance
as the sun scatters darkness, as the moon’s
subtle beams illumine the lotus buds.
All the wisdom of the world is in it.
But who will write it down, so that people
in the far future may read and learn from it?”
Lord Brahma praised the seer. “You have done well.
Your poem will awaken all who hear it;
and it should be written. You have my blessing.”
Then he cast his mind over a number
of candidates, all worthy scribes, and said,
“Ask Ganesha, the elephant-headed god,
master of all things intellectual,
god of beginnings. He it is who guards
thresholds, the boundaries of time and space,
who removes obstacles. Yes, ask Ganesha.
He is best fitted for this gargantuan task.”
“I’ll do it,” said Ganesha, “but only if
you speak your poem at my writing speed.
I won’t put up with hesitations, false starts
and other tedious practices, too common
in those who dictate.”
“Agreed!” replied Vyasa,
“but you in turn must undertake to write
only those things you have fully understood.”
So, by inserting knotty passages,
the seer would win himself some thinking time.
Hardly pausing for breath, Vyasa spoke;
Ganesha wrote with equal energy.
When his pen failed, he broke off his tusk tip
and scribbled on, and on.
In this way
was written the story of a noble line
divided against itself.
Now, listen . . .